


Violet

by Dragoneisha



Series: vying [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood, Buckets (Homestuck), Emetophobia, Flashbacks, Gore, Masturbation, More Like No Coping Mechanisms, Murder, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unorthodox Use of Slurry, Unreliable Narrator, Vomiting, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-27 08:05:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18191945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragoneisha/pseuds/Dragoneisha
Summary: Blood color is very important to a troll.Eridan has seen a lot of his.





	Violet

**Author's Note:**

> [[[[WARNING]]]]
> 
> this fic contains HEAVY IMAGERY OF:  
> -self-gaslighting  
> -gore  
> -vomit  
> -masturbation  
> -blood  
> -slurry
> 
> IF THIS MAKES YOU UNCOMFORTABLE, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

It's a very strange troll that can't stand their own color.

Eridan has always been proud of his violet. It's a royal hue, one of the best, obviously, and it's always a damn shame when it's shed, but at least it looks nice. He's seen a lot of it over the sweeps. It's what you get from living on Alternia, especially in his line of work. 

So violet doesn't bother Eridan. Yes, even  _ that much _ violet. He does remember what it looked like when he died. It's hard to forget something like that. But really, he can manage it. It isn't a big deal. Sometimes you gotta kill each other - that's something the humans never really  _ got _ , throwing such a fuss about murder. It's  _ just _ murder, after all, who hasn't done it? None of them have clean hands.

Eridan's working on clean hands at the moment, and by that, he means giving them a wash. He'd gotten himself a papercut trying to read, and it got him so worked up he figured he might as well take care of it. Still very silly to be washing your hands over a  _ papercut _ , but a little grasper-focused ablutions never hurt anybody anyway.

He keeps his hands under the water for awhile, peering into the mirror. His fins are  _ so _ flat. Right back against his face, they are, and that's no place for fins. 

He pulls a grasper from the flow of water, realizes it's the one with the cut, and swaps, after a moment. It's no problem. He'll just keep that one wet, if he's going to stand here like this. Eridan leans in a little and tries to primp up his fins, but they're still pinned back.

Stress pins back a seadweller's fins. Stress, fear, things like that, but Eridan doesn't  _ feel _ very stressed. He frowns a little, the teeth of his upper jaw digging into his lower lip, and reevaluates himself.

His pupils are rather small, even with the light on in here. (Why DID he turn the light on? It's not like him.) He's got a bit of a twitch to his lower eyelid, which he pulls at with the middle finger of his uninjured hand. Eridan cocks his head, and his brows are furrowed before he even thinks about it. Quite strange. 

He guesses he  _ is _ pretty stressed, after all.

The hive he'd picked was remote, but not as remote as it used to be. (He doesn't  _ really _ want to run into any of his fri- the others, anyway, so this works out for all of them.) The proximity is probably what's doing it. He's all alone in a new hive that doesn't quite feel like his yet. 

"Of course," he grumbles to himself, voice quieter than he expected it to be. This new hive much just suck up the echoes. His voice used to echo more in his shipwreck. "Stupid."

Eridan turns off the water, rubs his wet hands on his face, and turns to slip out of the ablutionblock. He thinks about hitting the light, but - maybe just a little lighting wouldn't be so bad, actually. Just a little. So he can pretend it's daybreak and he's just getting home from a hunt.

Eridan slips into his block with a little grumble. Now that he's noticed it, the stress has slunk forward from the back of his mattercase and oozed around the corners of his mind, like rising sea levels. It's going to keep bothering him.

Eridan sets his jaw and grinds his teeth. He wills it away, but a sandshovel can nevver assuage a rising tide, and he knows it. It's an ultimately fruitless endeavor, as even the deepest breaths he takes are too shallow to give the stress something to fill. It lurks, inevitable, right where he can't see it - but he's  _ noticed _ it now. How fucking annoying.

He leans on his desk and rubs his temples, eyes squeezed shut. Eridan doesn't know how he'd missed it before. It's the kind of drone in the back of his mind he would never notice if he didn't have so little to  _ do _ . 

Earth C is so fucking boring. He presses in on his temples, harder, and takes a hissing breath through his interlocked teeth. Not enough to fill his airsacs. Why would it be? Why would anything be easy for him? He only stops pressing when he feels himself start to bruise.

Fine. Whatever. He kicks off his pants and roots around the room for a bucket. If he's going to be so goddamn stressed he'll just destress himself by force.

The idea of palming his own bulge isn't exactly appealing, but a good wank will at least make this intangible stress stop weighing on him. Besides, he deserves a little time to himself.

Not like he has anything else, these nights.

Shaking that off, Eridan hooks a bucket out from the little compartment under his daystand. He leans on his 'coon and casually braces the damn thing between his calves. It isn't exactly the pinnacle of sex appeal, a dented metal bucket, but it'll catch what needs fucking catching. Eridan has long since foregone the idea that this is supposed to be a  _ special _ affair.

Coaxing his god damned bulge out is a lot more complicated than it used to be. He doesn't really take care of himself, as it were, very often, and he's not really in the mood right now either. There's more pleasure in this than, say, pulling his fucking claws out one by one, but it is just about as difficult.

A dry nook is not a very fun nook. He thumbs it anyway, just kind of hoping that'll help - his nook's always been sensitive, - but all he really gets it a twitch. He draws the pad of his thumb over his slit, in a longer, slower motion, and is rewarded. Eridan shivers, glances down -

And gets vertigo.

He clutches at the recuperacoon, taking a sharp breath, but he doesn't feel anything else. Okay. Weird. Not fun.

He hasn't gotten vertigo since he was a wee little grub, he thinks, a brief moment of insanity, and he doesn't much like it. Eridan could live in the sky if he'd so pleased, and he  _ never _ got vertigo. He used to leap off of Seahorsedad, for terror's sake, to grab something that needed grabbing, and trust he'd be caught before he hit the unforgiving water.

He shakes his head, peeks down again. Nothing this time. Eridan leans back against the coon. His claws pop themselves from its gelatinous surface, one by one, with uncomfortable shlocking sounds. He hasn't really realized he'd gripped that hard.

He peeks down at his strong, but trembling thighs, the round, bright rim of a bucket reflecting light up at him.

It must just be the stress.

The stress, yes. He thunks himself in the forehead with the heel of his palm, the little bony jut there stinging a little more than he'd intended. He's doing this to  _ destress _ , so he's going to have a little bit of nervousness. That's all it is, he tells himself, now shut up and deal with it.

His nook is a little more receptive this time, and he tucks in his claw to rub his second knuckle over its delicate opening. That's better. He can feel his sheath start to relax as his nook slicks.

Much better, of course.

Eridan's fins fold down as he tilts his head back, too tall for them to bump the recuperacoon's rim. He doesn't have much to think about. He's not exactly experienced in the sexual pursuits, as it were, and he isn't really interested in trying to look something up while he's already started. His grubtop would get a virus anyway, and he still doesn't know how to get rid of those, so no bright-knuckled porn searches for him.

He thumbs over the opening to his sheath and opens his eyes to stare at the dull grey ceiling. His free hand reaches to absently rub a fin, and that sends chills down his posture-pole, footnubs curling in his shoes.

Oh, he's still wearing - that's rather pathetic, actually. He doesn't glance down again, but he offers himself a frown of annoyance.

Mmh, pathetic. Can he chase that? It's always so hard to stay on topic when he's doing this, more than once he's just given up on it and put his pants back on, so a lot of work has to go into picking the right thread to pull. Is that what he's feeling like? It's hard to tell with stress eating at him like it is.

He shifts his weight so his knees bend just that little more. Experience tells Eridan it'll hurt by the end, but it's more comfortable  _ right now _ , who cares if his gams ache?

... Gams...  _ no. _ He's not about to do that. His face wrinkles up so much his eyes almost squint shut. Gam is not, for lack of a better word,  _ appetizing _ .

"Why do you gotta make this so fuckin' difficult," he growls to himself. A pinch to his fin gets him back on track.

Something else, then. Some faceless entity - trollian, let's go with trollian, much more sexy than humans with their exposed dangly bits and meat tubes and in-body gestation - giving him a good time.

It's hard to imagine himself as the receiver of any pleasant ministrations, though. He can never keep the idea there. So he just assigns  _ two _ faceless entities to fuck, and he'll pretend he's watching or something. Nothing too kinky or he'll have to get into a  _ storyline _ . That's so much work for what is supposed to be a quick fucking wank.

Why does that make him think of -

Eridan huffs out a breath like he's blowing away the idea. No, no, no. This is about him and these two identity-lacking trolls he's going to imagine pailing or whatever. He mentally skips past the foreplay, closing his eyes, and thumbs the sharp tine that ends his fins.

One of them, under the other. Facing each other, all fuckin' romantic or whatever. Ugh, romance, he doesn't want to think about that right now, it'll just add to the stress that's starting to build up in the style of a wave about to break. Just fucking, for fun. Teeth nipping at throats and the soft sounds of movement against each other, the slow, inevitable grind of their hips together, bulges curling in each other's nooks and thighs tight, one around the other, the way it's supposed to be.

His bulge slides out from its sheath, quicker than he'd expected. He puts a little cant to his hand so it presses against his palm.

Eridan twitches, a full-body movement, as he feels the slow, pleasant pressure, his bulge rubbing against his cupped hand and weaving between his fingers. Two fingers, now, playing with his nook. This isn't that hard, and it makes it easy to get both with just the one hand, although his bulge does have a nasty habit of exploring.

What next? Oh, the ears. He loves it when they get to each other's ears, these trollmanity-less trolls that he's pleasuring himself to. (Stress is joined by guilt, and he squashes it down. He'll feel guilty when he'd good and done, damn it all.) 

A tongue dragging up the curve of an ear, okay, so this one's a landdweller or something, and they'd gasp, wouldn't they? Eridan does, for sure.  He pulls his thumb up the curve of his earfin, imagines a gasped little  _ please _ . It's almost dirty, how soft they'd be with each other. His nook drips just enough to land in the bottom of the bucket with a metallic  _ ting _ .

Oh, that gets him going. He gasps, and it's too loud, drowning out the never-there sounds of the two intertwined. Their bulges would twist so nicely inside each other, and little drips as the one on top pulls a bucket over to catch it, but they aren't desperate - there's none of the neediness of drone season, they're just going to enjoy each other -

Something catches in Eridan's throat, and he ignores it.

He shoves that aside. He's close anyway, he can just - just - focus on himself. Hard to keep his thoughts straight, they slip from his fingers like fish in water, but nothing could be as slippery as his fucking bulge right now - it nearly slips into his nook, but he hooks his free fingers to catch it, redirect it. The slim, slick tendril curls around his wrist instead. This is - better than usual. He almost whines as he hears a few more drips, drops in the bucket, but it's coming, soon.

A rivulet sneaks out the back of his nook, tracing its way down his thigh. He can feel it so well, and he doesn't dare finger himself, he hasn't clipped his claws, it's not safe, but  _ god he's so empty _ .

Eridan groans, muscles in his stomach going tight, and his nook throbs.

"Ffuck," he spits, and his teeth dig into his bottom lip too hard. He presses his curled fingers up against his nook, into his nook just the barest amount, and his claws are safe tucked against his palm so he can rock his hand so nicely up againnnnnst fuck him so much.

Eridan has never been a loud troll, but he can't help but gasp. His nook clenches tight on nothing, and his bulge writhes slick and needy against his belly, so good, it feels so good - yes - he's close, he's  _ there _ -

Eridan spills, the splatter of it into the bucket and running down his legs just making it worse. He bites straight through his lip, damn fool, and muffles begging into the flesh. It's such a relief. It's such a release.

He comes down slowly, legs trembling, aching just as he'd thought. His stomach hurts, too. This is no trouble. His body betrays him quite regularly.

The silence of the room is not yet silent - there's the drip of his last slurry into the bucket. Not a metal sound, anymore - a liquid one. It's at least half full, he's sure. 

He doesn't know  _ how _ , though. He can feel he's gotten it all over his legs and belly. Made a fucking mess of himself, he has. Eridan wheezes out, and when he breathes in again, the blood hits his tongue. Iron. An uncomfortable iron taste. 

He looks down.

He's speckled and soaked in violet, from the trails down his legs to the seam in his -

\- his -

 

**_\- w a i s t -_ **

 

And Eridan is in the wrong place. The absurdity hits him, first, before the taste and smell of blood does. He looks up, idle for only a moment, into his own abdominal cavity, the violet sprayed everywhere, soaking his legs and his pants and his shoes. He can see it. He can see inside himself, an there's nothing but shit and blood and liquefied organs from the sheer vibrating force of the weapon. 

He's coated in his own blood. Violet, perfect violet, sprayed everywhere, he doesn't have a word for the sheer volume of blood. He's dying, he's dying again, he can feel his life leaving and he's got his blood all over him  _ he's covered in blood there's so much blood _

Eridan tries to run on detached legs, and he trips over himself, over something. A metallic clang rings out as he kicks the bucket over, and he hits the floor, unable to stand. He looks at his hand, at his bloodsoaked, violet hand, and he curls into himself to vomit up everything he'd ever eaten from his ripped-apart stomach.

He screams and sobs and struggles in the blood and vomit, mind white with stress, the kind of writhing a beast does in its last moments. The smell of sex makes it worse. Why does it smell - where is he - he's -

He doesn't know how he gets to the ablutiontrap or turns it on. He's just there, all of a sudden, watching diluted violet and bile swirl around the drain. He thinks of nothing. He knows nothing. He just sits, fully clothed and silent, watching this endless, useless swirl. It doesn't even seem to get any in. Or maybe there's just always more.

Eridan sits half-clothed under the frigid spray, his glasses spotted enough to keep him from really understanding what he's seeing. Nevertheless, he leans over, almost robotic, and spits up more bile for the shower to handle, the colors mixing over white tile.

He doesn't even breathe. The smell is terrible. The taste it worse. He doesn't know if it's slurry or blood that's making the water that color - he's still bleeding from his mouth and where he knocked his head falling down, but he really was coated in slurry, wasn't he?

How pathetic.

In the human sense.

Eridan closes his eyes, and resolves not to look at that color again.


End file.
